Pirate
by Lil'Dutchy
Summary: Every pirate will sin during his lifetime. But what about a young woman who only recently has become a pirate? She will have some catching up to do. Chapters written using Seven Deadly Sins as guidelines. Post AWE. Rated M for eventual Sparrabeth smut.
1. Superbia

Hi. Here you have it, my first Sparrabeth fic ever, 'Pirate'. I usually write KakaSaku fics so I hope I have been able to portray the characters of Jack and Elizabeth realistically. This story will hold seven chapters, namely the seven deadly sins, they are my guidelines per chapter. I want to thank Nytd for being such a wonderful beta and I wish to thank XxIcexX (Liz) for recommending Nytd to me as a beta.

Disclaimer: I do not own anything, nor do I make any profits by writing this story. If I did, I wouldn't be posting it here but I'd get a publisher.

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**Pirate**

_1. Superbia_

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_In almost every list **pride** (or **hubris** or **vanity**) is considered the original and most serious of the seven deadly sins, and indeed the ultimate source from which the others arise. It is identified as a desire to be more important or attractive than others, failing to give compliments to others though they may be deserving of them, and excessive love of self (especially holding self out of proper position toward God)._

_(Source: Wikipedia)_

_How long has it been?_

This exact thought kept haunting the mind of Elizabeth Turner, or 'Lizzie', ''Lizbeth' and 'Bess' as she was called nowadays. Her full name was only articulated to reprimand her when she hadn't scrubbed the deck properly, or when her braided ropes would not be sufficient and up to standard. Fortunately for Elizabeth, she was hardly ever reprimanded because she just so happened to be rather proficient in what she loved doing most, nay, what she loved _being_ most; a pirate. And seeing how those reprimands usually were uttered by a Captain so drunk on rum he could barely stand upright, well, it was safe to say Elizabeth had more faith in Jack the undead monkey coming across as serious.

The _Pearl_ was rocking gently on the calms of the ocean, bringing with it a soft wind that blew in her face. She wasn't cold though; her oriental trousers kept her warm, as well as the shirt she had borrowed from the captain when she had come aboard. She had been unable to catch any sleep and so she had seated herself on the steps to the upper deck, the helm and the Captain's quarters. Or cabin, as he himself liked to call it. She could well remember their little argument discussing why it wasn't as much a cabin, as they were his quarters.

"_Jack?"_

"_Yes dearie?"_

"_Why do you call your quarters a cabin?" She had seen his quarters several times before, when the ship had been under the command of Hector Barbossa and the few times Captain Sparrow would allow her entry to his domain. And it was hardly small enough to be called a cabin. _

"_For ya see Lizzie, lass, navy captains with sticks up their arses have quarters. I meself do not like sticks, therefore I 'ave a cabin." _

And that had been the end of it.

Looking up at the pitch-black mast, the wind gently blew against the sails, causing them to bulge, deflate, and then bulge again. It reminded her of the Manor where she used to live, and how one of the maids would use a pair of bellows to get the fire started in one of the fireplaces the immense house was furnished with. She thought of her father, and how he would sometimes come upstairs to tuck her in and tell her stories about sailors, the navy and of course, pirates.

At the memory of her father she took a large swig from the bottle of rum she had managed to snatch from the Captain's personal stash. It served him right. How often was he drinking? A better question would be: when was he sober? Those occurrences would be far easier to count. Problem was, in doing him a favour and sobering him up, eventually mind you, (of which he had no clue as of yet, the stash of rum hadn't dwindled away to the point that his drunken mind would notice) she was now _forced_ to drink away all of his rum. Although, if she were truly frank, there were some other causes as well as to why she had been hitting the bottle.

_How long has it been?_

It had been about five years since she had gone and saved the current captain of the _Pearl_ from Davy Jones' Locker. It had been a little over five years since she had last kissed said captain. It had been this long and she still felt sorry, still had trouble pronouncing his name, even when she was caught up in her own chimeras. He had long since forgiven her.

It had been about three and a half years since she had waved Will off and had left him in care of the oceans and it's condemned sailors. Their wedding had been short, small and most of all, difficult. Difficult, because all the while she had known she could not have him this close to her in the next ten years.

Which is why, about one year ago, she had left her title of Pirate King to Captain Teague (who she figured was a far better candidate for the post. She was too much out of her wits on a general basis to keep up appearances, whereas Teague was out of his wits on all occasions, plus he was a man so the title of King would suit him better anyway) and had begged Teague's son to take her with him, if only to get away from what reminded her of Will.

Their little house near Shipwreck Cove was a constant reminder of the fact that she would see nothing of the world while the two men she cared for the most were out there, being free, exploring and doing what they loved doing: being a pirate. But she was a pirate too, damn it, a free spirit that refused to be caged. She always had been fighting, struggling to get out of that cage. When she had been a little girl, the cage had been made out of gold and all things pretty. She had been able to destroy it, if only for a glorious four to five years. Nowadays land was her cage, and the Turner residence was the lock that sealed her fate.

Surprisingly enough, the mysterious, lackadaisical captain of the _Pearl_ had agreed to her wishes, if only for the reason that she would 'boost moral' amongst the crew, which had earned him a decent slap to the cheek for even bringing up such a vile thing. She was married, didn't he remember? Yes, she was a pirate, and a rather good one at that, but she still had her pride. Really.

Being aboard a ship did not only mean freedom, because that, in truth, was what the _Pearl_ really was; freedom, but it also allowed her to think of things other than her husband. And being on a ship with a captain who knew how to summon _The Flying Dutchman _(although not taking any pleasure in it whatsoever), it allowed her to see her husband once a year on the ocean. The last time she had seen Will had been about four months ago. They hadn't seen each other in about three years, and she had been able to notice changes.

Not only in his appearance, for Will Turner was, like his predecessor Davy Jones, slowly turning into a creature of the oceans himself. Carrying the souls to the underworld was a tough job and it was almost impossible to make sure all of them would reach their save haven. There were always a few that would escape Turner's attention, and therefore his hair had started to grow spikier, wetter and more tentacle-like. His appearance however was not the only thing that had changed; his behaviour had been altered as well. He seemed…bitter. A little harsher, and although there had been no doubt in her heart that Will had been absolutely delighted to see her, it was not the same hugging a husband who was even colder and felt more dead than the day they had gotten married. And even though it was tough to let go of her husband, seeing as he could only come aboard another ship for an hour, some small part of her was glad to see him leave. She couldn't describe why, and she felt terrible even thinking these thoughts, but if he would have wanted to consummate their love, well, she wasn't quite sure if she would have been able to cope making love to a man that would live forever. A man who was, in fact, undead in a way. Because that's what Will was and always would be; an undead man walking, bound to his ship.

'_Til death do them part'_, she added sarcastically whilst taking another large sip from her bottle of rum, noticing that she had emptied her third bottle of the night. She really needed to lay off that rum from now on. But it just tasted so wonderful; it relaxed her body and numbed her thoughts, thoughts she would otherwise ponder on for far too long, if she were sober. When was the last night she had been completely sober? She couldn't even remember, nor care. She supposed not only had Will grown harsher but she herself wasn't as soft and naïve as she had been on their wedding day. A lot of her girlish demeanour had gone awry in the years spent with Captain Sparrow, and certainly now that she was being treated as one of the crew, there was no time to fuss over washday red hands, ruined lives or living dead husbands.

_Trifles_, the captain would call them, those little things she used to worry about. _Little busynothings_, Will had called them. Elizabeth called them _trifles_, though. She figured spending this much time on a ship run by a captain with a rather interesting vocabulary would do that to her English.

She well remembered one of the first times she heard him use that term. It was right after he had, rather clumsily and with rum clouding his judgement no doubt, proposed to her. Telling her he was captain of a ship, thereby entitled to perform a _mar-ri-age _right on the deck she was now looking at. She was strangely fond of that memory. Even though she had called him out on the immense differences between the two of them, she still couldn't shed his words: _"We are very much alike. You and I. Us." _

_Peas in a pod._

She smirked, but her smile faltered the moment one devious thought crept into her troubled mind: _what would it be like to be married to –_

"Ah, so that's where all me rum went," a voice slurred from behind, one Elizabeth immediately recognized as her captain's. She also recognized said captain was probably not sober, which didn't matter in the least seeing as she had been staring at three masts for the past couple of minutes wondering if the _Pearl_ had been expanded while she had been in bed.

"I have not the slightest comprehension of what you are talking about, Captain Sparrow," she stated, rather proud that she had managed to utter such a complicated sentence with about three litres of rum down her stomach. There were still three masts though…or were there four?

"Ah." He nodded his head, confirming her statement whilst taking a seat next to her on the steps of the stairs. "Perhaps it would 'ave been wise to rid yourself of any evidence before making such a statement, eh?" he smirked, and she could feel his gaze burning her right cheek, but she kept staring at the mast…masts…either way. She could smell the rum on his breath, with something spicy she couldn't immediately specify, but she figured her breath was rum-laden as well so she really had no grounds to complain about the stench of alcohol that clung to him. She kicked the empty bottles at her feet up the deck but they kept rolling back to her feet because of the tide and the bobbing of the _Pearl_.

"Can't say I didn't try," she grimaced sourly, and inwardly complimented herself for being able to take note of the surprised look on his sun kissed face when she snagged the bottle of rum from his hand, emptying what was left down her parched throat.

"Aye luv, but the crew will probably assume there's a ghost wandrin' the deck, rattlin' chains and rollin' bottles, savvy?" he whispered, looking at the fourth empty bottle at their feet, his face inching closer near hers. She tensed slightly, although the liquor had reduced most of her usually hypersensitive senses to a pulp. He loved teasing her like this, winding her up. That, and there was something about her behaviour, her smell and the way she articulated herself that had held him captivated since the day they had met. She was like his aphrodisiac and he knew it. Bonny lass, she was.

"They won't. They will just assume it was you. I _am_ the crew, I know."

"Yanno, pride doesn't suit women, Bess. And even though me and you, you and I, _us_, we have been through some…", he paused as he leaned in even closer to her ear, resting his right arm on her thigh, "_trifle_ circumstances together, that don't justify yehr drinking up the Capn's rum." A whiff of her smell, a combination of rum, sweat, something sweet and something uniquely of his Lizzie hit him in the face as she stood with brute force.

"I'm sure if you are willing to wait here, it will soon come back to you," she snarled at him, her stomach agreeing with her previous statement, and in her haste to get away from the captain and his wandering hands (which she had noticed by the way, it just wasn't worth her time) she tripped over the bottles at her feet and landed square on her behind, legs apart and knees bent. She was facing him, and was greeted with a teeth baring, gold flashing smile as his deep, dark laughter filled the air. Soon, she was laughing with him, their cries of joy mingling in the salt air, but as swiftly as the mood had lightened, the gloominess fell onto them as soon as it had disappeared. The look on her captain's face was once again that which it had been ever since she had sat foot on the _Pearl_: serious. And if Captain Sparrow was looking serious, best believe the things next discussed wouldn't be laughing matters.

"Don't look at me like that," she spat, trying to ignore his penetrating stare, his dark eyes that were squinted slightly as if he were contemplating what to say next, his dark, rich voice as he spoke.

"What's troubling you, 'Lizbeth'?

"Nothing," she retaliated, a little too quickly.

"Ah, so this _is_ about the whelp."

"Is not!" Damn, too quick again.

"You're not a very good liar, Bess." He spoke as he slowly rose from the steps where he had remained seated.

Elizabeth, who was still sitting on deck, was now faced with Captain Sparrow towering over her, looking into the night's sky. His face lit up whenever the moon's light would cast upon it and she realized he was quite the handsome man, dressed in his pants, boots and what once had been a white shirt. Well, if you ignored his bad manners, facial hair, lack of a moral centre, personal hygiene (although she wasn't exactly coming out of this whole pirate thing smelling of roses), attempts at flirting with a married woman (namely herself) and the fact that he had forgiven her quite easily after she had sent him to his death. And although she was rather happy that he had, she still felt she owed him something or other. Then again, he seemed to have forgotten about the entire incident altogether. Or perhaps he just didn't want to remember? She could understand it if that were the case.

"Although…", he pondered as he sank down and crouched, their eyes meeting; his soft, rich and dark, intimate almost and hers brown, frightened and yet strong, "you did manage to persuade me into a little game of lies of yer own when ya left me to dear beastie."

So maybe he hadn't forgotten. But they had never talked it over after it had happened! Why did he want to bring it up anyway?! He kept staring her in the eyes, forcing her to come up with a witty reply, the way he always had done, and she was never one to disappoint, he knew this for a fact.

"But you…I-I'm not sorry for what I did! Will never be! Besides, you forgave me." She tried to sound strong and confident but her voice slurred because of the alcohol her brain seemed to be swimming in, clouding her judgment, jumbling her thoughts back and forth.

"I did, din' I? And yet you do feel sorry, Lizzie, aye?" he smirked at her, and again she was confronted with the fact that he was rather attractive. Or maybe that was just her rum-induced mind speaking.

"I'm not sorry for what I did then. But it doesn't feel right, you forgiving me so easily as though I didn't send you to your death, which I did…I will always treasure you for accepting me aboard, but I can't help but feel…" She never met his gaze, spilling her drunken feelings out on deck, her sentence faltering.

"You don' owe me anythin', lass, but if you insist, I'm sure you and I can come up with some ways to make yeh uhm, pay off certain feelins of guilt, savvy?" he offered, quirking his brow, flashing her another smile whilst twiddling his moustache with his forefingers and thumbs. He braced himself on her knees and if Elizabeth didn't have a shred of sanity (and a moral centre!) left, she was pretty sure Captain Sparrow was trying to kiss her. Funny thing, irony. But whether he knew or not that she would never allow such a thing (even though her breath had hitched the moment he was leaning towards her, squeezing her knees gently, sending all sorts of nerve endings into disarray), when she dashed off and away from him, standing up, he gave her all the room she needed.

"Captain Sparrow, I don't think I have had enough rum just yet to let myself be seduced. I _am_ married you know." she addressed him, trying to sound serious when all she could do was think about her stomach doing flip-flops and snicker at the false look of disappointment on his face. Not to mention the naughty smirk that was written all over that pirate. It was confusing her to no end, was he in fact disappointed that she hadn't allowed him to kiss her? Was that why he was looking at her the way he was? So why did it also look as though he wasn't genuinely disappointed? Did he want to kiss her, as much as she wanted to be kissed by him, wondering whether he had enjoyed it as much at the time as she when –

No, no, no, she couldn't! She was drunk, and married. As in: _mar-ri-age_!

"Really?" he countered, walking towards her, every step he took sending her one step back until her back met the mast and he was standing so close to her she could feel his chest rising and falling against her own. He placed one arm on each side of her head, caging her in, although for the first time in her life being caged wasn't so bad. This kind of thing had been happening more often lately, although it had never gone further than witty bantering. Alcohol always took things one step further, or in this case: about five steps.

"I always thought you were of the opinion, Miss Swann, that rum was a vile drink, wasn't it? I'd say ya had more than enough, luv," he whispered thickly, and his warm, rum-laden breath was enticing, enchanting and bewitching her senses. His proximity did funny things to her insides and she wasn't sure how long she could keep her drunken brain from sending the message to her hands to start undertaking certain 'action'. His forehead was but mere centimetres from hers and his lips were so close to her own she could almost feel the words being formed on them.

"Have I?" she whispered, inching closer to his lips, his mouth looking so inviting (wait, inviting?!) before her brain could even register the words leaving her mouth. She regretted it immediately for she was not a hair better than her captain: flirting when she shouldn't. And yet the promise of another kiss from him…She regretted having spoken even more when he took the warmth of his body from her and grunted slightly, taking a few steps back and straightening his shoulders.

"I'd say yeh have, luv. I was gon' ask you to dance wit me, sing songs, to make amends so to speak. Make ya feel be'er perhaps, no guilt, no debt, eh? But yeh be'er get sum sleep, wouldn't want the man wit the 'ammer wakin' you up." He turned away from her and started making his way up the stairs.

Elizabeth was dumbstruck. Not only had she just been denied of a kiss, which she didn't want in the first place, but here her captain was worrying she could have a hangover in the morning? Was he actually being concerned? And the question that earned the most pondering…

"Goodnight, Bess."

"Captain? Can you even dance?" she prodded, knowing she'd get a rise out of him for certain. And she got it right. shoulders strained even more, losing their usual slump, as he turned towards her with a hint of a smirk lurking near the corner of his mouth.

"You may call me Jack, luv." And with those words he disappeared inside his quarters, leaving Elizabeth alone with her thoughts once more.

_How long will this go on?_

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Please R&R! Next up:_ 2. Gula_


	2. Gula part I

FI-NA-LLY, an update! I know...I've been really busy this past month with something called life (although it has mostly been uni pressing on me). So, I know this is hardly long enough of a chapter to make up for my errr...tardiness :D But there will be a second part, so bear with me here. My beta Nytd (whom I'd like to thank for beta-ing!) agreed with me that leaving this the way it is would be fine for now :)

Music: Cherry red girl – Seth Lakeman (= love)

Disclaimer: I do not own anything, the almighty mouse does. I just move his pawns when he's not looking.

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**Pirate**

_2. Gula part I_

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Derived from the Latin

_gluttire__, meaning to gulp down or swallow, __**gluttony**__ is the over-indulgence and over-consumption of anything to the point of waste. In the Christian religions, it is considered a sin because of the excessive desire for food, or its withholding from the needy._

_(Source: Wikipedia)_

_How long will this go on?_

This was the exact question that went through Captain Jack Sparrow's mind as he closed the door to his cabin behind him, locking it firmly.

How long was this blasted woman going to steal from his personal stash of rum? Didn't she know they would only make port in Tortuga once every month!? And with the bunch of men (and the aforementioned woman) he had as a crew, it would usually only take about a quarter of that month before they would be out of rum again. He actually suspected his dear old Lizzie of being the main consumer of his beloved liquid.

He had tried to reason with her on this subject and the possible consequences of drinking too much (he had experienced most of these consequences firsthand). Naturally, she had to go and point out that he hardly had any reason to complain at all seeing how she had only woken him from his drunken stupor less than an hour ago for dinner (which he had reencountered whilst leaning over the rail). _Trifles_, really.

And then he obviously _had_ (really, how could he resist?) to make a remark about how 'dear William would probably disagree with your latest hobby, Lizzie-lass.'

And then she'd slapped him. In front of his crew. They'd laughed. He had fallen asleep near the helm where she'd hit him.

The next morning he had given his men (and woman) hell by making them scrub the _Pearl_, top to bottom and smiling while doing it, threatening to send them to the Locker if they wouldn't. This had almost immediately ensued in another banter between his own person and the (he might add: irate) Pirate King. He went and made a remark about her being able to reunite herself with her dear husband if she wouldn't start smiling whilst scrubbing.

She had pulled his dreadlocks and dunked his head in the bucket of water next to her and nearly soaked his hair right off of his head. He could well remember the look on her face as he threw the entire contents of the bucket (and others nearby) at her person, not to mention the way she looked in that soaking, white, rather transparent-when-wet-shirt and –

Which brought him back to the question: _how long will this go on?_ Although mystery and goofiness where among two of the things that surrounded him, they were but a mere façade, for Jack Sparrow was hardly a fool. He knew what was going on between himself and Elizabeth Turner.

Turner. _Bugger._

Even the feeling he had when he merely thought of her last name send shivers up his spine.

Stumbling towards his bed, he managed to snatch a half-empty bottle of rum from his desk. Taking a few firm swigs, he emptied the bottle, then put it on his chest as he made his way over to his bedchamber. Kicking his boots in a far corner of said chamber, he laid down on the bed and pulled the sheet up all the way to his nose.

If he were to be truly honest with himself (which was just about the only person in the world he was truly honest with on an irregular basis) he didn't even know why he'd let the lass join his crew. Perhaps it was because she would make a fine addition to his crew (assessing her working skills, naturally)? Or was it because she was desperate to see her husband more often, and he was just a means to achieve that goal because he couldn't ignore that pleading face of hers? Perchance it was because she needed to be at sea as much as she needed to breathe, just like himself?

Or maybe, just maybe, it was because she liked spending time with him, _Captain_ Jack Sparrow?

He wriggled his nose due to the sheet itching and he threw it off the bed altogether in one swift motion of…confusion?

_This_ was the exact reason why Jack Sparrow never got involved with women of any other kind than the likes of a Gisèle or a Scarlett. He would pay them plenty for the means of their mouths, and he would hardly mean talking. With Elizabeth however, things were a little different. A lot more different, actually. Was that even a normal sentence?

Jack shook his head, hoping for some way he could achieve shaking these troublesome thoughts from his mind. It didn't exactly work.

_Bugger._

In truth, he paid Lizzie her for the use of her mouth as well (be it a lot less compared to what he paid Scarlett, for example), but in her case he _did_ pay her for the talking, amongst other things…He enjoyed their little private conversations, even if these conversations hardly had a beginning or an end due to certain excessive amounts of a certain liquid aboard his vessel.

How had she found his secret stash anyway? Surely she couldn't have gone through -?

But he was wandering off-topic.

Banter. That would be the word to describe their civil conversations. Although they were usually hardly civil to begin with. Sure, they would start out civil, but sooner or later he would always be unable to resist making a witty remark just to aggravate her, to get under her skin, and in return she would always be unable to suppress the need to call him 'immoral, indecent, unhygienic (which would have nothing to do with the conversation, mostly), a baboon, a barbarian etc.'. In most cases though, he would tune her out as soon as she would start yelling. She had never called him a pirate though, because he knew that was the reason why she was…fond of him. Yes, _fond_ of him…

And he was rather 'fond' of her. He was just as fond of her as he was of Ragetti, or Jack the undead monkey, or that man with the bad haircut, Pintel. He had never liked that man.

So, _maybe_ he was more fond of Lizzie than he was of Pintel. But only a very tiny, hardly worth mentioning, little bit.

Then again, Lizzie would look far better in a dress than Pintel ever would. Or nothing (Jack nearly gagged at the thought of Pintel naked). Nothing being preferable in Lizzie's case.

He couldn't help but dream of her sometimes. It wasn't as though Jack had never realized Elizabeth was quite the attractive lass, it had been that kiss that had sparked his interest and made it spring to life in full force. He had kissed many a woman before, but somehow the innocence of his King and yet her determination to get at what she wanted had turned him on far more than it should have. It was only right he had called her that.

"_Pirate."_

That's exactly what she had become, what she had always been deep down inside. And for him to be the one to watch her blossom and grow into the woman she was today had been the quite the adventure in and of itself. A small, fleeting feeling of pride made itself known within his breathing chest, only to disappear as soon as it had arrived. That same confident woman had sent him to his death, and although he had forgiven her, truly and honestly, no one had ever accomplished that feat before her, and therefore Jack was now always on his guard whenever she would get close to him, both physically and emotionally.

He was a ladies man, but that still didn't make him a fool.

Yet he couldn't help but wonder what it would be like to let her in. Would she even be interested if he would let her get close again? Seriously close, not the way they had been playing around lately, feigning anger and disinterest when the air was as thick between them that even fair William would've been able to cut it with one of his own handmade swords.

_Whelp._

And even though he hated his mind wandering down this lane, it was a familiar lane, and he found himself walking on it again. That whelp must have been the one and only person to claim Elizabeth as his. As was his right, of course, seeing as she was his wife, but lately Jack was having a hard time reminding himself of this fact. The way they had been arguing and behaving towards one another, one would almost assume she was not Turner's wife, but _his_. How he longed for this to be true, but he knew for a fact that it couldn't and wouldn't. She had made her choice long ago, even if he was fairly certain she had made the wrong one, even now.

_Especially_ now.

And even though he knew the facts, and wasn't a fool, Jack was enough of a smart man to know that even the non-foolish made mistakes. As was he right now, wondering what it would be like to kiss those soft, pink petal lips again, if only for the sake of feeling that passion again. What it would be like to love her tender skin, to leave marks on that skin, claiming her. To hear her moan uninhibitedly for him and _only_ for him for making her feel the things she would deserve. The things Turner could never give her. To take, no, to make love to her body as often as he could, to desire her, to thru –

He was brought out of his rather erotic reverie by a sound coming from the deck.

"_Yo ho, yo ho a pirate's life for me_

_We pillage, we plunder, we rifle and loot_

_Drink up me 'earties yo ho!"_

Jack groaned as he turned his back to the noise. While he was now strongly convincing himself it had been nothing, he must have misheard and he was going to sleep. Now.

"_We kidnap and ravage and don't give a hoot_

_Drink up me 'earties yo ho!"_

Swinging his legs to one side of the bed, he took his head in his hands and groaned again, muttering something that sounded a lot like some vehement curses and something along the lines of "setting a bad example", which no doubt referred to a preference in drinks they shared. Putting on his boots, he grabbed a bottle of rum from a smaller chest next to his bed, knowing this was going to be a long, _long_ night.

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Please R&R! Next up: _Gula part II!_


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